"They both seemed so tolerably
sure of it that we've taken it for granted. What's the deep, dark
mystery?"
"Grace means," it was Amy who acted the peacemaker this time, "that it's
strange about the name."
"And, of course, it is," Betty added gravely. "Sergeant Mullins should by
all rights be Sergeant Sanderson."
"And Mrs. Sanderson couldn't have known about his being called Mullins,"
Grace broke in eagerly, "because we've spoken to her of Sergeant Mullins
more than once, and she never acted as though more than casually
interested."
"Well, but I suppose that's easily enough explained," said Mollie, who was
in no mood for details--the actual occurrences being wonderful enough in
themselves to occupy her attention for some time to come. "People often
enough change their last names for some reason or other."
"Then you mean," said Grace, "that William Mullins is really William
Sanderson?"
"A fair assumption," returned Mollie dryly. "Unless Mrs. Sanderson's name
is Mullins."
"Perhaps the best way," suggested Betty peaceably, "would be to wait and
let Mrs. Sanderson tell us about it."
"Wait--" Grace was beginning, when a gentle tap sounded on the door and
Betty flew to open it.
On the threshold stood Mrs. Sanderson, her eyes red with weeping, yet her
whole face so transformed with joy that the girls would hardly have
recognized her as the Mrs. Sanderson of that morning. Instinctively they
glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see the tall figure of Sergeant
Mullins looming in the background, but he was nowhere to be seen.
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